Three Years Later
by ozwinozwald
Summary: Sherlock returns after three years for a conversation with John. Short one-shot post-Reichenbach.


**A/N: I don't own Sherlock. I just like the show.**

* * *

John tapped his pen atop the unopened folders before him. He had several client forms to sign and sort before he left for the evening, and he still couldn't focus enough to do that. Why should he be able to? It had been three years to the day after all.

He tossed the pen down and sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. He felt old suddenly. Far older than he had ever felt before.

A knock at the door drew him away from his thoughts, as he snapped back to attention.

Head high. Shoulders back. Eyes alert. Some habits never fade.

Molly stood beside the door. In her arms, she held a large sweater while an even larger bag was wrapped around her back. The poor woman never stopped working, even when she did go home. It was a habit that she had developed since…_well_ since that one dreaded day all those years ago. John knew that _he_ was the reason she had buried herself in work—he had decided to do the same hadn't he? Find a job and block out all the pain—it was easier that way. It was always easier that way.

"John?" she asked tentatively, curling her fingers around the fringes of her sweater.

She had grown to become even more soft spoken since _his _death. She hardly talked and when she did, it was rarely above a whisper. John had asked her once why she didn't speak up more and she had replied with a solemn face that, "The dead have their own secrets to keep. I wouldn't want to lose their trust."

John shook his head mentally. She needed more friends—preferably ones who had a pulse.

He cleared his throat. "Yes, Molly?"

She opened her mouth and closed it. This was another habit she had developed. She never knew what to say now—not that she did before, however it had grown worse.

"I just wanted to see how you're holding up," she said finally with a nod. "It is the anniversary of Sherlock's death."

John looked away as his shoulders slouched forward slightly. "Is it?"

"It's been three years, John."

He chuckled lightly despite himself. "So it has." Silence. "How are you?"

Molly said nothing for a while but gave John a small, sad smile. "Better," she nodded. "I'm finally doing better, actually."

John forced a grin. "Doctor Moran's helped then, has he?"

She grinned and bit her lip, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. John frowned. He hadn't seen this side to Molly in quite some time.

"Oh yes," she giggled girlishly. "Although, I'm no longer seeing him as a patient."

"Oh?"

"I've been seeing him as a..._friend_."

John's grin spread across his face as genuine happiness filled him. It was nice to see Molly happy at last. "Why do I get the feeling you mean _more_ than friends by that?"

She giggled again and played some more with sleeve of her sweater. "We were wondering if you'd like to join us tonight, actually. We're going down to O'Dowds for a few drinks. Might make it easier and all that—not being _alone_."

His grin fell as he looked back down to his desk and lightly drummed his fingers across the stack of files that remained. "I have work."

She smiled sheepishly and nodded. "Of course. If you change your mind though…"

"I know where to find you. Thanks."

She smiled and turned to leave.

"Oh, and, Molly?" he called after her. She stopped and turned, raising her eyebrows in curiosity. "It's good to see you smile again. You have pretty smile."

She giggled and nodded out some sort of thanks as her cheeks turned red before backing away. There was an extra bounce in her step, John decided, as he watched her braid swing back and forth across her back.

Maybe things were finally beginning to change for the better around St. Bart's. He had to admit, he was getting tired of the empty feeling that persisted throughout the halls. Hell—even the busy streets of London felt empty to him now. He felt empty.

And why shouldn't he? He had been the one to see Sherlock jump. He watched him fall. He saw the blood.

John leaned forward over his desk and closed his eyes, remembering the scene.

_Oh, the blood._

He should have known then that his friend was dead—but some sort of intuition inside of him told him to check for a pulse. There was none there.

No pulse. No heart. No Sherlock.

It was as simple as that.

But why on earth had he jumped? It wasn't because he was fake, like he claimed to be. John knew that was false. There had to be some reason that caused him to jump that day, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out what that reason was. Then again, he never understood Sherlock or his methods—not completely at least. He doubted that he would ever discover the answer.

John frowned as he heard the sound of the outside door opening. His secretary had left for the day and Molly had gone. The cleaning crew wouldn't be in for a few hours still, so that ruled them out. He shifted in his seat, attempting to look through his cracked office door.

"Molly?" he questioned. "Did you come back for something?"

He heard the shuffling of feet stop outside his door. John frowned and absentmindedly reached for his top desk drawer where he kept his gun. He could see the shadow of someone outside-it was someone who was far too tall to be anyone he knew.

His hand gripped around the cold metal just as the door opened and the figure entered his office.

John's breath caught in his throat as his hand went slack against his pistol. The tall figure stood in the middle of his office with his hands in his pockets, looking down at the floor.

Silence filled the room as John attempted to comprehend what—no, _who_ it was he saw in front of him. His hair may have been lightened a few shades and his skin darker, but there were still some recognizable features. There was no mistaking to whom the tall, gaunt frame belonged.

John blinked once, slowly. "Sh…Sherlock?" he breathed. He didn't know if he was seeing things or not.

He looked up at John then. His eyes were older, but still the same shade of blue that they had always been.

"Hello, John."

Silence again filled the room as the two men looked at each other. John knew it was his turn to speak, however the shock of seeing the man that he had assumed dead for three years managed to rob him speechless. He looked away at last and chuckled.

"No—no, you're dead, Sherlock," John stated with a wag of his finger. "You can't be here, because you're dead."

Sherlock's face fell, as if he had just been slapped. He looked around the room aimlessly. "I know you have questions—"

John chuckled again, except this time it was forced. "_Questions_?" he repeated before shaking his head and standing up suddenly, slamming his hands down on his desk so that several items shook. "You are damned right I have questions, Sherlock!" Sherlock appeared unfazed by his friend's outburst. "Where do you think you get off? I mean really—"

"John," Sherlock interrupted calmly. He looked so much older than he had before—tired too. "I had to do it. I had to fake my death."

"Really?" John questioned, crossing his arms. "You had to tell all of us that you were dead? Do you even know the damage you've caused us all? Me, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly—"

"Molly knew."

"Molly—" John frowned and looked to his friend who was now examining a bookshelf. "She what?"

"Molly knew," he said again. He frowned. "Who do you think helped?"

"_Helped_?"

"Well yes," he said plainly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You don't honestly believe that I could have done all that alone, do you?" He looked to John and then shrugged. "I _told_ you not to make me into a hero, John."

"I didn't…" John shook his head and uncrossed his arms. "She nearly ended up being committed because of you."

"_Yes_," Sherlock breathed, pulling out a book and flipping through it. "She's a surprisingly good actress, isn't she?"

John shook his head. "_The dead have their own secrets to keep…_"

"What was that?"

"Nothing." John shook his head. "Just something Molly would say…"

Sherlock closed the book with a snap and replaced it, looking to John expectantly. "Is that it?"

"Is what it?"

Sherlock shrugged his head. "Well, I assumed you would have yelled at me a bit more. I was quite expecting you to punch me again, truth be told."

John chuckled. "And do you want that to happen?"

"Oh, goodness, no."

The men looked to each other and grinned, laughing slightly. John cleared his throat and looked away. It was too soon to return to how they had been—he wasn't even sure that _that_ was possible now.

"Why?" John asked finally "_How_?"

Sherlock nodded, a bit unsure. "Why am I back or how am I alive? Or both?"

"Both would be nice, yeah." John looked him in the eye. "You made us all wait for three years. An explanation _would_ be nice."

Sherlock sighed heavily and crossed his arms behind his back and began to pace. John rolled his eyes and sat down. He knew it would be an especially long explanation if Sherlock was pacing.

"Both are extremely complicated, John. The _why_ cannot exist without the _how_ and vice versa."

"Just get explain it already, Sherlock!"

Sherlock paused and frowned at John for interrupting him before he began his pacing once more.

"As you've probably pieced together yourself, I confronted Moriarty on top of Saint Bart's three years ago. We had a lovely chat—_if_ you could call it that. That was not our first confrontation that week, however. We shared a cup of tea where he revealed his hand. He said that he had a few digits of computer code that would act as a 'universal key', if you will. He insisted that during the course of that same conversation he had revealed the key to me. Moriarty then proceeded to tell his clients that _I _had the code."

"The hit men that were around the flat all that week," John said, the memories slowly coming back to him. "I thought it had something to do with them."

Sherlock nodded. "Moriarty lied though. There was never any code. Just a cheap magician's trick. He used his connections to break into the Tower, not a code."

"But of course, he wouldn't admit to that, so…"

"So, we were left to our rooftop confrontation. According to his _clients_ there were only two people who knew the code—Moriarty and myself. Of course, Moriarty was deranged. He wanted to bring me down. Watch me rise to glory and then see me fall." Sherlock paused; his eyes had glazed over as he remembered everything that occurred. He cleared his throat. "Naturally, I called his bluff. I knew that there was no code. I don't think even he fully anticipated that I was clever enough to figure that out."

"Then," John began, knitting his brows together in thought as he struggled to piece things together, "that would be when he shot himself? If he were still alive, he could call off his men—but with him dead, there'd be no one to tell them otherwise. They'd never believe you if you said that there was no code if Moriarty was dead."

Sherlock paused in his pacing, casting a side-glance to his old companion with mild surprise. "Good job, John. I see you've been working on your reasoning skills since I left."

John looked away and rolled his eyes. "Nice to see you haven't changed much," he muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. So why did you jump? Why not just..._disappear_?"

Sherlock resumed his pacing as he continued his story. "I needed something public. I couldn't have any doubt in the assassins' minds that I was dead. So, I jumped."

"Why…_why_ not tell anyone? Why not tell _me_ about your clever, little plan?"

Sherlock gave him another look, but quickly looked away upon seeing how hurt he was. "Because, John—the more people who knew I was alive, the more people there were in danger. There were three assassins when I jumped. Even you could do the math."

Sherlock's pace quickened, obviously he was still upset over the incident. John was quiet for a moment before the realization came over him. "_No_!"

"Yes! Even in death, he almost _beat_ me. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. _You_!" He threw his arms up in contempt. "You were all in danger. If I hadn't jumped then, you would all be dead. Moriarty had found my one weak point. _Sentiment_. I began to care too much. It would have been the death of me, had I not figured out his plan."

John rubbed his temples. "Yes, that's all very good, Sherlock. But _how?_ I watched you fall."

Sherlock grinned, pleased with his own cleverness. "You watched me fall, John—but did you see me land?" He sent his friend a large grin, only to be met by a confused frown. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed heavily, approaching John's desk.

"Oh think, John! Use that empty space between your ears and _think_! The phone call. You remember it?" John nodded. "How many times did you approach me and I told you to go back? I don't do anything without having a reason behind it. There's a small building in front of the hospital, if you recall, John. You may have watched me fall, but you never saw me _land_."

He paused for what John assumed was dramatic effect. Some things never changed.

"On the other side of that building, directly in front of the hospital was a rubbish truck. We filled it with enough bags that would cushion my fall. Mind you, it still wasn't the most fun activity in the world."

John frowned. "Hold on a tick. _We?_ Who's _we_, exactly?" He cocked his head to the side. "Molly wasn't the only extra hand you had, was she she?"

"You give me too much credit, John. I couldn't have pulled off such a feat without help. Mycroft, Molly, and a few members of the homeless network were in on the plan as well. The truck came from Mycroft—or rather, a connection of his. I had to hurry after I landed; after all, I knew you and others would be rushing to see the man who jumped.

"I had some assistance as I rushed out of the truck, drenching my head in stage blood and lying on the pavement. It was surprisingly difficult stuff. We barely managed that in time. Mycroft sent one of his men to run you down just so we would have a few more moments to perfect the scene."

John nodded. "The biker. Which means when I finally rounded the corner—"

"The truck would have pulled away, taking with it any evidence that remained."

"But I took your pulse. How did you hide that? Let me guess, some perfectly balanced chemicals, I suppose? A certain dosage of morphine?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Oh, John," he said almost wistfully. "How I've missed your silly little deductions. Good guess, but as always, _wrong_. The thought did cross my mind briefly, however I knew that there wouldn't be enough time to inject myself with the perfect balance of any drug so I resorted to something a bit more simple—an old parlor trick, really. By hiding an old squash ball under the armpit, one is able to conceal his own pulse. Many a magician has used it."

Sherlock sat down across John, tucking his long legs beneath him. "Before I fell, Molly alerted the staff that there was a man about to jump. They sent paramedics out immediately, taking me to the morgue—"

"Where Molly would produce a fake death certificate _and_—I assume—a fake body as well?" John questioned, making sure he was following the story accurately. "I was a pallbearer. That casket was full."

"It's London. There's always one or two John Does to spare."

John nodded slowly, his mind struggling to take in all the information at once. "Answer me this though, Sherlock." Sherlock raised his head up, paying close attention. "Why three years? Why come back now? Why today?"

Sherlock sighed and looked away again. "Moriarty's network was larger than anyone could have imagined. It spanned the entire globe and…"

John held a hand up and nodded. The rest didn't need to be said. Moriarty's network needed to be eradicated. At least that explained why Sherlock had looked so much older—he had fought another war while he was away.

"Well, you're back now. Lestrade _will_ deck you one though."

Sherlock laughed and nodded. "Yes, I quite expect that he will."

Silence again fell as Sherlock looked around. John waited, knowing he was going to say something else. Small talk was never something they were very good with.

"I had a lot of time to think while I was away," Sherlock began.

"Sherlock," John tried to interrupt, but Sherlock continued.

"I thought about a lot of things. I thought about coming back. I thought about giving up. I wondered how you were, how Molly was." He grinned to himself as a distant look came over his eyes. "I even wondered about Anderson believe it or not."

John laughed. "No."

Sherlock nodded grimly. "Unfortunately, yes. I had a lot of time to think about life and relationships."

"Come to realize anything?"

He shrugged. "I'm a prick, aren't I?"

John laughed again and covered his face with his fist before attempting to cover it up with a cough. "_Well_," he began nodding, "it has been said."

Sherlock smiled. "I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry for everything. I've been imagining what I would say to you for years and now…" he trailed off, looking far away. "Well, now I can't remember a single sentence I had planned."

"That's how it tends to be." John drummed his fingers on his desk. "You know—things aren't the same as they were before." Sherlock nodded. "I'm glad you're alive, but…that doesn't change the fact you've been dead for three years." Sherlock frowned and opened his mouth to protest. "You've been dead to me anyways. I'm not ready to dive back in, as they say. I need time. Right now, it feels like I'm talking to a ghost."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I suppose it would be like that."

He looked down for a moment before standing, rising to his full height once more.

"I best be off then. Give you time to think."

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock shrugged. "To Scotland Yard, of course. They still have a warrant out for my arrest."

John felt his jaw drop as he resisted the urge to laugh. Of course they wouldn't have removed it when he "died"—faulty filing records.

"You don't have to go immediately, you know," John began, standing and grabbing his coat jacket. "You could go out for a drink—_if_ you feel up to it. Molly and her boyfriend are at O'Dowd's."

Sherlock hesitated, placing his hands in his pocket and opening his mouth in some half formed excuse.

"She deserves to see you too, you know," John chided.

Sherlock nodded. "True. I could stay for a moment I suppose. She would like it."

John nodded. "Yes, she would. I have a feeling she'd love to show off that new man of hers too," he said, walking past Sherlock on his way out.

"Another boyfriend?" Sherlock questioned, following John. "Who's the poor soul this time?"

"Psychiatrist. Doctor Moran. I think it was Sebastian Moran, but I can't remember. I don't talk to him much."

"Different fields of medicine," he commented with a shrug. "Well let's hope he's not a murderous psychopath this time."

John nodded in agreement, entering the hallway and pausing outside the lift. He looked up at Sherlock and smiled.

"What?" Sherlock questioned, frowning.

"Nothing," John said, shaking his head, still smiling. "I'm just..._really_ _glad_ you're back."

There was a pause as the men entered the lift before Sherlock felt a small grin cross his face as well. "Me too, John," he murmured. "Me too."


End file.
